'Forgotten Children': A Personal History

One British Evacuee Of '40 The Object Of A Years-long Search

September 28, 2003|By Lois Sessions Spratley

On Sept. 3, 1939, England declared war on Germany. And then? Zilch.

In a period now known as the "phony war," nothing much happened until months later when, in the late spring and early summer of 1940 Hitler's blitzkrieg -- the mid-20th century's version of today's "shock and awe" -- cut through Europe like a knife through butter. France fell on June 17. Invasion jitters racked the island.

But even before the Blitz began British parents, eyeing the approaching avalanche, were transferring children out of large cities to -- hopefully "safe" -- provincial towns and the countryside.

Finally the government officially got into the act with the Children's Overseas Reception Board, whereby boys and girls between the ages of 5 and 15 could apply to be sent abroad, mostly to the United States or British colonies or commonwealth countries.

Unexpectedly, even alarmingly, the response was overwhelming. By mid-July, the board was hopelessly bogged down. In any case, the whole program was brief for on Sept. 17, 1940, the "City of Benares" was sunk by a torpedo. Among the 406 passengers were 98 children, only 13 of whom survived.

Meanwhile across the pond in the United States, private programs such as the American Committee for the Evacuation of Children were forming to accept the offspring from "professional and clerical" families and secure suitable volunteer homes and financial underwriting so there would be no cost to U.S. taxpayers.

Although officially neutral -- America was not yet at war and wouldn't be for another year and a half -- the majority of its citizens were sympathetic to the Brits, and none more so than Mrs. Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Her enthusiastic presence on the committee helped short circuit troublesome immigration and child labor laws. In all, it has been estimated that about 2,664 children left England under their government program, although the private placement numbers, over 13,000, were much higher.

Growing up during World War II, I came to know quite a few British evacuees -- all girls because I attended girls schools and summer camps. Looking back on them with older, more empathetic eyes, it could not have been an easy experience leaving parents for five years, fitting into another family or new institution, adjusting to another culture, not to mention hearing a strange version of the English language where "biscuits" became "cookies" and "bonnets" referred more to heads than automobile hoods. Indeed studies have shown that while some children thrived, others did not. And the effect on self-identity was long term. Where did they belong? Were they British or American?

The girls I came to know best and kept up with the longest were those I met at summer camp. There in the White Mountains of New Hampshire for the eight weeks of July and August, perhaps 20 out of 200 campers were evacuees. For the most part, they went from camp to boarding school -- from one institution to another. And even when most campers went home at the end of August, some of them -- having nowhere to go before school started -- stayed on for "gypsy camp" braving September's frosts with pared down activities and a skeleton counselor crew.

So it was that 60 years ago, in the summer of 1943, I met Solna Joel. We were both 13 and lucky enough to have been assigned to the same cabin. She was a lovely, lively lass with blond hair and -- don't laugh -- lilac eyes and a deliciously wicked wit. In fact, she became the prototype for "Susan Drake," the fictitious heroine in my novel, "Transatlantic Triangle," a hopefully painless, pleasant attempt to remind readers of those "forgotten children."

Among the many things I remember about Solna that summer, while Europeans and by then Americans too, endured wartime suffering, was how much she admired my ridiculous taffeta bathrobe. She loved it, she claimed, not only for its absurd luxury in our less-than-cushy, log cabin fake "frontier" existence, but for its colors -- apple green with a salmon pink lining. They were, she announced, "father's racing colors." And that, as it turned out, would be the clue that led me to her more than a half-century later.

My husband and I were -- are -- devoted members of the itchy foot club. Can't stand it if we're not somewhere else, physically if possible, mentally if not. I came by this condition genetically; my first trans-Atlantic trip was on my parents' honeymoon. It was a disease I happily passed on to my husband and children.

Furthermore, having become a book reviewer, my kind Daily Press editor, well aware of this affliction, assigned me lots of books on European and British history. Somewhere along the way -- I can't remember which, when or where among the British books I reviewed over 20 years -- I became "aware" of Solomon Joel.